


For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical

by candesgirl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dream Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:42:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candesgirl/pseuds/candesgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spanking and blow jobs in dream land. How's that for a summary? ;) Little bit of dub-con, if that's not your thing this might not be the fic for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical

He didn't mean to see it, wasn't looking for Arthur's weaknesses when he'd gone into the dream, wasn't prepared for the vivid color and surround sound of Arthur's subconcious. It hits him like a punch to the gut in the ninth round, the sound that echoed through the lush red, velvet room, the distinct slap of skin on skin, of a pained, choked off moan. 

He rushes forward, his movements quicker in dreamscape than would be in real life and before he can blink or catch his breath he's standing before them, before Arthur and this projection of his mind, this overbearing figure of a man whose face is shrouded in shadows. He wants to yell, to reach out and stop it but the words don't come, his action is suspended in mid air, like a stopped frame of film. Arthur looks at him as the slice of a quick moving hand cuts through the air, closes his eyes at the stinging sound, mouth opening obscenely wide and sloppy over Eames' own name and he is afraid then to look again at the projection.

Some distant sound disturbs his ears, familiar notes trudging through the thick swamp-like air that's suddenly crept around him and he's moving again, slow motion this time, hand coming to rest on Arthur's face, thumb moving into Arthur's open mouth. 'Not like this,' he tries to say, 'not in this world,' he tries different words, tries to shout over Edith Piaf's warbled, strained, stretched vocals though nothing comes out but an obscene moan as Arthur closes his mouth around Eames' thumb.

A deafening bang cuts through the sludge before Eames is aware of the gun in his hand. The imposter - the fucked up, dark projection of which is likely Eames - falls to the floor before he can get his hands on Arthur again and suddenly everything is moving quick again, too quick. Arthur bites down on his thumb to draw attention back to him, moving up from all fours to pull his own gun on Eames. Another bang and seering, white hot pain join together to pull him into that limbo of space between dreams and reality and he's gasping for breath, flailing his limbs in an attempt not to fall into that blackened pit.

He jolts in his cheap lawn chair, yanks the PASIV tube out of his arm and before he can think about whatever consequences will surely arise from his actions, he reaches for Arthur, rips the tube out of his arm and pulls him out of his chair by his wrists. Arthur resists, he's surprisingly strong but no match for Eames and Arthur's hands are held firmly in place behind his own back, one of Eames' hands holding tight onto his wrists, the other pulling Arthur down by his shoulders until he's spread out over Eames' lap.

Arthur is wriggling as much as he can, spitting fire with words at Eames until the tips of his ears look like they might burn if you touched them and Eames says as much to him, adding a delighted with himself little laugh and the out loud thought that he did always like to play with fire. Arthur struggles more at the laugh, doing nothing but succeeding in pulling himself more taut against Eames's lewdly spread out legs and Eames can feel Arthur, hot and hard against his thigh.

"Arthur, darling, you're going to hurt yourself," he says, running his hand up the back of Arthur's leg to rest on his thigh.

"Fucking let me up, Eames, or I swear to God..."

"Such language when you're angry, Arthur, all colorful words and swearing at the man upstairs. I had no idea," Eames is tracing his fingers over Arthur's ass, using his knee to press up against that growing heat even as Arthur tries to avoid further contact. 

"You have no idea about anything," Arthur hisses at Eames, hisses again as a quick, flat palm slaps lands against him and lingers on him.

"Don't I?" Eames leans down to rasp against his ear, one hand loosening around Arthur's wrists, the other moving around Arthur's slim waist, fingers coming to stop against fastenings. 

"Don't I, Arthur?" Eames repeats himself when Arthur offers no answer, repeats himself again when Arthur shudders at the pop of a button, the sound of a zip. "Don't I have an idea, pet? Was that not some gloriously fucked up projection of me that had you on all fours?"

Arthur stills when Eames' fingers graze his dick, when Eames asks him if he'd been a bad boy for his projection, if he'd disobeyed or if he maybe just liked to be put on display over daddy's knee. 

"No answer, Arthur? No answer for your daddy? I'm afraid that's just not acceptable, you see," and Eames is ripping expensive threads down to expose just enough bare, pale skin, a perfect palette with which to mark. 

The first comes with no warning, quick and deliberate, just like the second and third and all the rest. Eames asks him again, asks him how bad he's been, and it's filthy and cliche and Arthur's taking it, not so much as gasping with the sharp contact until Eames asks him if it's what he wanted, if he's what Arthur wanted and that's when Arthur breaks. He sobs, yes, yes, Eames, yes and Eames is purring in his ear, telling him what a good boy he is, how pretty his pink skin is, how turned on Eames is by his pet and how long he's wanted Arthur just like this, obedient even in his defiance, gorgeous in his denial, glorious in his wanton rubbing against Eames' knee. 

He's bringing his hand down harder and sharper, no rhyme, reason or pattern, stopping only to coax pleasure out of Arthur, to soothe him through it, tell him it's okay, he's a good boy, so good, so beautiful like this until Arthur is no longer shaking with the intensity of his lust, until Arthur is chastened and pliant from spanking and orgasm.

Arthur is lax in Eames' lap only for a moment, languid in a way Eames has never seen him before as he sinks gracefully down off of Eames' lap and onto the floor, onto his knees. He parts Eames' legs even further, hands on his thighs and leans in to mouth and moan wantonly against Eames' cloth covered crotch. Eames closes his eyes, opens them to bright, jewel colored tones, to Arthur pulling back and looking up at him with wide, lust blown eyes and a question of please on his lips. 

"You'll get your suit dirty, darling," Eames tells him as he drags a hand through Arthur's surprisingly soft hair, pulls him forward without much effort to mouth again against him. Arthur's breath is hot and moist and Eames isn't sure when his trousers came undone but Arthur is wrapping his lips around him and sucking like he's some sort of pro and the thought of Arthur sucking anything other than Eames' dick pisses him off and he's grabbing hard at Arthur's head then, telling him to take it, to choke on it and he knows, distantly, he sounds like a dirty john but Arthur's taking it, relaxing his jaw and letting Eames fuck his face. He moans, Arthur does, moans right around Eames and all of a sudden Eames wants nothing more than to see Arthur's face streaked in white, to see it drip all over that pricey, perfectly tailored Armani suit.

He pulls out of Arthur's painfully hot mouth just in time to streak his lips with thick ropes of white, a long guttural groan of Arthur's name as he tightens his fingers in that head of black hair one more time.

"Beautiful," Eames is whispering even as his eyes open, as his surroundings come into fuzzy focus, the jeweled tones of Arthur's world replaced with the drab gray of the old warehouse. 

"Nice nap, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks from his side, fingers loose and warm around Eames' wrists as he unhooks him from the machine. 

"Yeah," Eames answers quietly, "yeah, sorry about that. Wanted to have a go at some things."

"You know you shouldn't go in alone like that. Someone could sneak up on you, see something you don't want them to," Arthur warns him, fingers lingering on his pulse. "Must have been a good one, your heart's going a mile a minute."

"It was, you know," Eames stutters, eyes trained on the upturned quirk of Arthur's lips, "it was good."

"Only good? Guess we'll have to dream a little bigger next time," Arthur whispers against Eames' ear.


End file.
